


You're Not Alone

by Akiran



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gore, M/M, Zombiestuck, based off a tumblr post, half zombie Karkat, slightly insane Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiran/pseuds/Akiran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hear it before you see it coming. There’s a groaning, raspy noise, one you’ve been trained to listen for and hunt down, and so you seek it out, but something tugs in the back of your mind. The rasping and moaning is all too familiar, and that unnerves you to no end. Where have you heard it before? Was it from someone you knew? You pick up your pace to a sprint, your sensitive ears pulling you into a small alleyway (clearly the best thing to do in a zombie apocalypse is to run blindly into dark, tiny alleyways—great job, you).</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's finals week and I don't know what I'm doing with my life. If you're waiting for Sgruban Love or WILTLF, they're not discontinued--I'm working on chapters, but I've been also attempting to bring up my grades, so I'm laying off a bit, so just hold on! c:>
> 
> This little oneshot is based on all the zombiestuck I've been seeing on my dash lately, but mainly this post by dreaming-decadence and jovialmaverick: http://dreaming-decadence.tumblr.com/post/48678587595/dave-karkat-zombiestuck and I saw it and this thing just wrote itself and I am sorry but not sorry. I tried to write a little gorey, but it doesn't make up much of the fic. Also this turns kind of weird suddenly yeah.

You hear it before you see it coming. There’s a groaning, raspy noise, one you’ve been trained to listen for and hunt down, and so you seek it out, but something tugs in the back of your mind. The rasping and moaning is all too familiar, and that unnerves you to no end. Where have you heard it before? Was it from someone you knew? You pick up your pace to a sprint, your sensitive ears pulling you into a small alleyway (clearly the best thing to do in a zombie apocalypse is to run blindly into dark, tiny alleyways—great job, you).

Fuck, it’s too dark. Night has fallen already, and the moonlight is dimmed by the thinning clouds above. You cannot see jack shit. But you can hear it. It’s clearer now—the raspy moaning—and you can hear a faint shuffling and dragging of feet a little ways ahead. You can smell it too, the vile scent of rotting flesh that assures you that it is probably no longer one of your own. Your mind shifts into a panic that isn’t visible on your face (if there’s one thing your bro’s taught you before you struck him down in his early stages of zombification, it’s that showing fear is showing your weakness to the enemy). Would it be another mindless friend you would have to strike down? Shit, you’ve killed so many already; this would just be another to add to your coldblooded murdering spree of your own despair. You don’t think you can take this anymore, but you have to keep _living_. Living for all the people who you’ve killed because there was no more hope for them—there’s no more hope for anyone once they’ve been bitten. Living for your best bro—the fucking idiot that Egbert was when he gave you one last goofy grin after showing you his bite and leading your sword up to his throat.

Why is it always you? You’re not a hero. John is— _was_ , and now he’s dead. Dead by your hand, oh god christ, you’re going to lose your mind. Harley could have made such a great hero. You don’t even know where she is anymore; you hope she’s safe at least.

The only sound that brings you back to reality is its voice.

“Dave… help me.”

You still can barely see. You make out the slumping outline of a humanoid figure limping its way towards you. Your heart beats faster. A survivor? Zombies can’t speak. Thoughts pass through your mind at thousands of miles per hour and you can hardly process them long enough to form words.

But then the figure gets closer, and you choke in recognition. Moppy black hair caked with dirt and blood, gray skin almost translucent and pale (you can’t tell if it’s the lighting or not), and those nubby, candy corn horns.

“Karkat?”

You half expect a flippant, angry response, but all you get from him is a hacking cough that shakes his entire body. You make your way towards him, determined to help until you’re hit with the pungent odor of rotting flesh—it’s coming from him, and shit shit shit shit is he just another you have to kill are you going to be alone again no please you don’t want to do this anymore you can’t you won’t why is it you why is it always you.

You begin stepping backwards instead, slowly and cautiously, and stop when you’re a safe distance away. You need to see. You at least need to see him before you kill him too and you’re alone again. Your take off your shades, your freakish red eyes searching him out, and you find him, only now you wish you hadn’t (why the fuck are you so stupid?).

His clothing is disparaged, covered with blood, and so is he. You have half the mind to question whose blood it is, and you have half the mind to realize it’s probably his. One of his eyes is clouded over, now white with cataracts, or blindness, or whatever zombies are affected by, and parts of his face look bruised and wounded.

It takes you a moment of epiphany to realize that it’s not bruises or wounds on his face—it’s _rotting flesh_. It’s festering and horrifying, a disgusting mix of putrid brown and dark purple. Blood paints his lips, dark and oxidated, as he chokes out more of it every time he coughs.

You would retch if you hadn’t seen similar scenes already, yet you gag because this is the first time you’ve seen someone you know this far into the stages.

He reaches out towards you with blood smeared fingertips, and you take another step back, readying your sword. You can kill him. You can do this and put him out of his misery. His mind is probably already too far gone. He’s nothing more than another zombie, another target. Another obstacle in the way of your quest to find a survivor so you won’t be so alone.

Then how did he remember your name?

Side matters. They’re unimportant. A quick charge and slice of your sword will easily put him down for good. You almost do it until you hear him speak again.

“I’m… not like the others, I swear,” Karkat—no, the _zombie_ chokes out as he tries to step towards you again. He heaves violently again, trickles of slimy blood making their way out of the corner of his mouth. It reminds you of that time you watched that zombie apocalypse movie with him, when you finally convinced him to watch something other than romcoms, and he had scowled in distaste when you got to the part where the zombies ate people’s brains. Except now Karkat was the one eating brains and flesh and biting people, and you were the protagonist on the move to survive and kill.

“Sorry, pleads for mercy aren’t accepted in the Strider business,” you say calmly, keeping your voice leveled and cool.

“No! You have to… hear me out. Please… Dave.”

Your hand twitches when he mentions your name again, except this time you walk briskly towards him and position your sword’s tip directly at his throat. “Maybe there’ll just be some last words.”

“I’m… only half,” he sputters. He moves one of his trembling hands up carefully, avoiding the sword, and weakly wipes at his mouth, smearing new blood that recently found its way to his lips.

“Half’s not good enough.” You’re cold, hard, and ruthless.

“Neither is being a fucking mutant!” he snarls, bringing up enough energy to scowl at you. He grimaces at his outburst, coughing again before he whispers, “And look where that got me.”

It takes you a moment before you understand. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

He nods, glaring the best he can at your offending weapon. You lower it slightly, but not all the way. You’re not ready to lose your life if he’s a zombie playing pretend.

“Can you eat?” you ask him.

He looks away. “Weren’t you going to kill me?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Yeah, I can eat.”

“Flesh or food?”

He winces when you say flesh, but hurries to answer when you begin to move your sword back up to his throat. “Both—but they were never alive when it was flesh.”

“When did you last eat?”

“The day… before yesterday.”

You have food back at the warehouse. You lower your sword. “Come with me.”

Karkat relaxes visibly.

You begin to walk, albeit slowly so he can limp to catch up with you, and you wait until he’s a ways ahead of you before you start to calculate.

Where would the best place to aim for be if he goes feral? The throat, the forehead, the eye, the chest—there were so many options. The sword in your hand starts to shake in anticipation.

That’s right. You’re destined to be alone. He’ll leave you eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if anyone got what I was going for but it went way out of hand from what I was trying to emanate. Oops.


End file.
